It begins with I
by HaylisNocturne
Summary: It ends with forever, but how does it start?   A story of trying to get things right when they have always been irrevocably wrong, of love and deception and pure, pure music.


IT BEGINS WITH I

By Haylis Nocturne

Disclaimer: Last time I checked, I didn't own anything – this time, when I checked, I didn't own anything – third time lucky though, right?

A/N

Hope this is to your liking Miss Wolve – it's in serious need of care and attention, and it's very, very young – so be careful with it, as you don't know what it will become. But hopefully, as with all things, particularly wine and cheese, it will get better and richer in both texture and flavour as it matures.

I wish anyone who reads this good luck, and bon voyage! Hope you stay with me for the duration – I've quite a story in store for all of you, and it's only the beginning – no one knows where the end is – least of all me.

This is a little different to things I've written before, but I hope the style fits in with what I had planned, I was kind of going for a Victorian traveller tale, with maybe a bit of Rudyard Kipling thrown in there in regards to tone…

I've also slipped several quotes from other bits and bobs in here – nonexistent cookies and a smug sense of satisfaction will be awarded to all those who can find every titbit I've tucked in!

Gather round all, I've a tale to tell - it ends with forever and begins with an I…

Good sirs and madams, I've a tale to delight your minds and ensnare your senses! A tale of marvels, ghosts and horror! Of romance, true love and heroism! A broken clock and a music box feature! A tall dark stranger and the mystery of Le Fantome De L'Opera! Gather round, gather round!

It was Christmas Eve, and in the Opera Garnier, everything was still for one small second. Not a soul moved, not even a mouse. The rafters above the stage were hung with yards of pine boughs and crystal baubles, the columns cloaked in golden tinsel. Centre stage a single gold star winked in the fast fading twilight, and the curtains had been festively showered by well meaning stage hands with a mixture of wallpaper paste and cheap glitter, that had stuck to the curtains with a fervour no one had imagined, and had begun to eat away at them in such a manner that Messieurs Firmin feared for the continuing safety of the curtains (and thusly, the continuing safety of their wallets.)

The boards, so often seen scuffed and dirty after suffering the effects of a thousand feet performing a thousand operas had once again been varnished so that it gleamed pompously, appearing to say to the empty seats that surrounded it _'Listen, you creatures of earth – on me heaven has been wrought into words and music! Bow down, fools, and acknowledge my greatness!' _The chairs themselves gave no reply; standing stoically at attention, in neat curving rows that gradually faded into the shrouding darkness of the auditorium. All at once, a chilled wind blew and disturbed the dust that had settled on the stage, creating figures and dancers that performed with the music of silence, to an audience of nothing.

The scene, as we say, was set.

A word, if I may, about the nature of the Opera House, good ladies and gentlemen, for it is quite a point of interest, that, until that moment, that one, single moment, the Opera House had never been still. It is in a theatre's very nature to always throb with life, and yet this one theatre was different, dear audience. Of course, you all know the tale of the Opera Ghost, you know of his exploits – but the Opera Garnier was haunted long before Le Fantome ever deigned to set foot in the cavernous underbelly that he came to call home. Opera Garnier is haunted by the ghosts of life! It never stops, not truly, even though sometime it gives all impression of doing just that, but then!

Then a patron would come forward with the necessary funds, or, later, Le Fantome would publish another masterpiece (say what you will about the man, messieurs et madames, but say no more than that about his work), and once again the opera house would march forward, rent was paid, wages earnt and glorious, soul shattering solos were sung. Someone wanted the opera house alive, dear audience, and we should all thank heaven they did!

On this night, shoes had already been lost and replaced, lines sung, and moments snatched in the darker corners of the theatre by sweethearts kept safe from the chill of winter by the warmth in their hearts. Christmas was their busiest period, and everybody pulled their weight, doing performance after performance after performance. La Carlotta had sung to appreciative crowds twice each night of December, had a tower of roses next to her dressing room, twelve new young men swearing their undying love to her, and was now paying for her overzealous encores with a very sore throat and an entire paragraph of threats dedicated purely to her on Le Fantome's latest missive.

The performance on this particular night had, therefore, been sung by Christine, and had been in the early afternoon, meaning that by this point in the day, the theatre was almost completely deserted, the ballet rats having been released to go wherever they wished, either out onto the streets of Paris for some wishful window shopping or home to their dormitories where they were currently involved in a very heated game of charades (winner gets new pointe shoes), and the stage hands, managers and other staff had been dismissed and sent home, wherever that may have been.

No one was here, and the stage seemed to cry out like a petulant child _'Pay attention to me! Look at me, love me! Adore me and worship me!'_

Of course, no one did.

No one except Christine.

She approached the stage in reverence, her grey woollen shawl wrapped tight around her body. Her face was pointed upward, blue eyes gradually acclimatising to the dim light in the theatre. She looked as though she were searching for something, or indeed, someone. Her Christmas angel perhaps? (But I digress, dear audience, and as narrator, should not allow such foolish sentimentality to cloud the telling of this tale).

Christine was clothed in a simple work shift, the slightly scratchy cloth wonderful insulation against the chill that had seeped through the building, but it seemed an offence to wear such plain things when put into the context of her surroundings, and Christine appeared to notice this, drawing the shawl tighter still around her body till she looked like a tiny child, her small shuffling steps taken to try and retain as much warmth as she could seeming only to agree with this.

Christine had long ago scrubbed off the stage paint that lent her the porcelain skin she was so famed for and, after an afternoon spent roasting hazelnuts with Meg, her cheeks were flushed and her lips chapped from the heat. Her hair had begun to stand on end from the cold and lacked it's normal lustre due to the infrequent opportunities she had had to bathe as of late. In fact, it was fair to say that at this moment Christine looked neither composed nor angelic, and most certainly looked nothing like an object of adulation _**should**_. There were no satin dresses to complement her complexion or sapphires to show off her eyes, and the unearthly quality she possessed when singing on stage had faded to nothingness now. And yet, it was Christmas, and that alone seemed to lend a beauty to everything that had nothing at all to do with aesthetics.

Christine seemed to glow with contentment, the radiance of peace and happiness surrounding her in such a way that despite the fact that she looked a complete _**mess,**_she still manages to be beautiful.

(At this point, dear audience, Christine had reached the stage and, still looking completely in awe of her surroundings, now begins to ascend the stairs.)

A whisper of ghostly proportions rattled through the air, making Christine jump.

"What, pray, are you doing on _**my sssstage?**_**"** The hiss slithered down Christine's back and a she set foot on the stage, whipped her head around to try and locate the source of the noise which had so rudely awoken her from her reverie moments before.

"Monsieur?"

She called out, perhaps unwisely, she thinks later, as she knew that this was a stupid thing to do, particularly since the only reply she gets is a chuckle breathed down her neck. "Monsieur? Monsieur Le Fantome?" Her voice had quivered a little on the last call, and as the chuckle rose again, Christine felt a surge of indignation that this… phantom should toy with her so.

"Come out monsieur! I am not afraid of you, nor should I be! My maestro is here too, in this very theatre and he will protect me, so I scorn your attempts to frighten a poor girl, particularly on Christmas eve! Monsieur, you go too far!"

The silence that followed this outburst seemed to crawl towards Christine and she started to step backwards, before tripping on a piece of her own shawl, although she did not realise this and thought instead that it was the ghost, and imagined hands and claws to accompany her fall. She shrieked in pure terror, a sound neither pleasant nor musical (do not always associate the one with the other dear audience, for confusing music and joy is something that should not be done by anyone, if they care at all for their eternal soul) and shot back up to her feet, all the while calling "Angel, angel please, I need your assistance! Maestro, _**please!**_"

As the chuckle became a booming laugh Christine shrank back against the stage, and let out a scream of truly epic proportions. It echoed around the theatre, seeming to return to Christine again and again. Christine's face had turned pale once again, and her golden hair hung in front of her face like a shield, her eyes wide and her pupils dilated she folded into herself once again. Then another, more familiar voice slid from out of the gloom, and Christine seemed to relax into the dulcet tones of her Angel, leaning toward the sound as though these words alone could shield her from her previous tormentor.

"Ah, my dear Christine, what on earth have you called me out here for? Not this phantom business again surely – I have taught you that there is no such thing as a ghost, so why must you carry on with these silly superstitions? Oh! Why are you crying, silly girl? You know I am always here to protect you – I alone am your angel, and you must always trust me. You know that, surely?"

"Of course angel, I know! I am so grateful you are here, and that God, in his divine grace sent you. But I am so very, very frightened!"

"I am here, and there is no phantom! Do you doubt me?"

The last sentence was said on such a forlorn note that the air stood still, waiting on Christine's reply. Christine, meanwhile, looked up with shining eyes and leaned yet further in to the voice " _**No!**_ Maestro! I could never, would never…." She trailed off, unable to think of a suitable fashion in which to swear her undying loyalty.

I must interrupt again, I'm afraid, ladies and gentlemen, for I feel rather obliged at this point to define poor Christine's state of mind at this point in time, that she so willingly leans in to a murderer's call.

To be fair to the child, she did not know, at this time, that the phantom and her angel were one and the same, nor, indeed, that either were murderers. She simply believed herself to be in the presence of her best friend, her father figure, almost her god, in the sense that he seemed able to control everything in her small world, and knew that she would do anything,_**anything at all**__,_ for her angel. That is no reason to be so enthralled by his voice, I hear you say – but his voice could make the walls themselves cry in grief monsieur, if he so wished it. Still, onward with the tale, for I do not expect you to understand that.

"Why are you here child? For what purpose is your visit?"

"To wish you a merry Christmas, of course, Maestro! I am so sorry if I have interrupted you with my silly scare! I'm sure I just imagined it, if that's what you say, monsieur. I'll leave now if you wish monsieur! Of course, I've called you away from your duties, I am so sorry angel!" (By this point, Christine was almost praying, her head touched to the floorboards.)

"Nay, you may stay, my dear – you have not inconvenienced me at all, have no fear of that, for you are my purpose – remember? You will stay, of course, unless you wish to leave?"

"Maestro, I would never wish to leave you, I will remain with you forever, and you with me, you promised!"

"I did promise that, did I…well then, together we shall remain."

"Nothing would give me more pleasure angel – you are my protector, my maestro, and I need you – now and always!"

"Good."

A/N Merry Christmas, KW – Pirate – Gnome – Wolf girl - you know who you are. I hope you enjoy the story to come – I've only posted this up here for you (that's right, feel awed at how awesome this is, you get your own story!) All my affection, always – S

EVERYONE

I'll probably post once a week, if I can manage it – someone poke me into doing more if you like it though, and I'll try to! Much love to you all, hope you've had a marvelous holiday!


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